


Mirror

by KeepGoing



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Deep Conversations, Hurt/Comfort, Ian POV, M/M, Married Life, conversations they never had, ian just wants mickey to talk, mickey finally tells ian how he feels, mickey is a good husband, things ian never told mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24635707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepGoing/pseuds/KeepGoing
Summary: You don’t want to break him. Not ever again. But you also can’t be the man he thinks you are if he doesn’t know everything. If you don’t tear the mask you’ve been wearing for years now completely off and show him what’s underneath. Its what you were trying to explain to him that night outside Byron’s when you insanely thought promise rings were going to make up for years of taking him for granted. How can he really want to be with you, love you when there is still so much, he doesn’t know?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 33
Kudos: 217





	Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Ian's POV. I've never done that before; Mickey Milkovich lives in my head. But I wanted to write something where Ian is having an internal conflict with himself and Mickey, in all his Ian wisdom, sees right through it. 
> 
> Comments are love. I hope you enjoy this.

“I slept with a woman.”

His eyes lift from the pages of the magazine he had silently been enjoying and you watch as his eyes do that  shifty thing where he looks around at nothing while his brain catches up to his ears. 

“What?”

You take a long breath in and start again. “I slept with a woman.”

You can practically see the thousands of emotions that flood his features in a matter of ten seconds and  you can tell  he’s trying to figure out  _ when.  _ He’s recalling every night  you’ve worked late and every moment you two have spent apart in the past  7 months.  His wheels are turning and it makes your heart shatter like glass from a window where  you’re on the outside looking in at him. It takes him a few  _ minutes  _ before he  speaks again. 

“What?”

Because  he’s gone over every moment in his mind and none of those moments make sense to him as he  studies the map of  you’re relationship, your  _ marriage  _ in  the last months laid out in his mind. A mind that probably replays, more often than not, other times, before prison and the  _ marriage, _ when you were late or not waking up next to him in the morning  and you know it still haunts him in different ways than it haunts you because you barely remember those nights or even him or how you felt about him back then. 

You knew…know it was l ove. What else could it have  possibly been ? But when  you try to recall even a blip of what you must have put him through , it's just scatters of light and darkness. Its like a mist covering a beautiful field of your favorite flowers. It's dark clouds  when the sun is trying to shine at its brightest.  And  you hate that you  can’t remember. But are thankful too. But you know he remembers, every agonizing detail of your betrayal and sickness and you still will never understand why he loves you so damn much. 

He’s still suffering; his brain still  digging in dark corners to try and see if there was something he missed. Something he overlooked because he does love you so damn much. 

“ A while ago.” You finally answer and you watch as a  flicker of relief washes over his features but then  he’s thinking again, still trying to figure out  _ when. _ “When I was dating, uh, Caleb.”

Now he just looks plain confused and you  don’t blame him. You brush back the strands of freshly washed hair off your forehead and scratch at your scalp. How do you explain this?  _ Why  _ are you explaining this?  You look at him looking at you and you realize you  don’t really know  _ how  _ to explain it.  You guess you know  _ why  _ but will it make sense to  _ him? _

He’s slept with women. Bu t he did that for reasons that you fully understand now. Not then , when he was this enigma you were trying to claim and  obtain and control.  But now you  do, now that he’s your  _ husband  _ and not  some possession. Now that you really  know him, all of him. His flaws and fears and traumas, some you lived through together, and his light and color that is so bright now that sometimes it blinds you .  You understand his  _ why  _ but your  _ why  _ stems from jealousy and curiosity and trying to understand a relationship that never should have happened to begin with. 

There is so much about those years apart from each other that  was never touched upon, and  maybe in some fucked up masochistic way , this is you trying to talk about it.  He’s made it clear to you, many times, with sharp looks, angry fire breathing words and a few fists, that t hose things, those years apart,  are better left untouched but  you’ve always been a poker.  A pusher. Pushing and poking at emotions and walls that were there for a reason, even when you understood them completely. You never leave well enough alone, case in point as he’s still looking at you with this confused, angry,  hurt, worried look because he knows, he  _ fucking knows  _ you’re about to hurl the two of you into  something that shouldn ’t have to be spoken about. 

You’re playing with fire. And you know how this is going to end, but you stick your hand in the flame anyway. You  wouldn’t be you if you  didn’t . 

“Why you telling me this?” he asks, a brokenness in his voice that you rarely hear anymore. You  haven’t since before you were married because he  isn’t that broken man anymore. He married you, made a life with you despite all his fears and  own fires he had to put out himself without any help from you or anyone , and left that other man, that boy, long behind. The boy who used hands and blood and weapons to express himself. The boy who craved something,  _ anything,  _ to  kill the anger inside him and inside his own home. The boy  who  was assaulted , in so  many different ways , all in the name of…well…you. 

You  don’t want to break him. Not ever again. But you also  can’t be the man he thinks you are if he  doesn’t know everything. If you  don’t tear the mask  you’ve been wearing for years now completely off and show him what’s underneath. Its what you were trying to explain to him that night outside Byron’s when you insanely thought promise rings were going to make up for years of taking him for granted. How can he really want to be with you,  _ love  _ you when there is still so  much, he  doesn’t know?

He claims to not care  about that  _ stuff _ , but  _ fuck _ you  _ care  _ and that  has to mean something. Doesn’t it?

“Because I don’t want secrets between us.” Is how you decide to answer which  isn’t right  _ either _ and none of this is going how you wanted it to. Even though you had no clue how you wanted it to go. 

He huffs out an annoyed breath of air and finally closes the magazine he was reading and you see that its some  technical magazine that for some reason fascinates him and again, it hits you, how much you both  _ really  _ don’t know. 

“ This what you  wanna do tonight, huh? We  gonna go through every person  we’ve stuck our dick in? That sound like  a great time to you?” he twists the band on his finger  and looks at you with such an open expression it makes you wonder if there’s any ounce of  fight left in him. You ached, for  _ years  _ for him to just be…softer. Open.  To touch you, just once, without you touching him first. Then once you got it , once you pushed and demanded long enough, it then  wasn’t good enough. It was the opposite of what you wanted. And its  _ fucked _ , you know that.  Its totally  _ fucked  _ that in a weird, stupid, unnerving way you just want to  ** fight ** tonight. 

“Maybe.”

_ God, _ you are such a pussy. 

He rolls his eyes at you.  _ Rolls his eyes  _ and shrugs. “Okay, cool. Let's fight. We haven’t done that in a while.”

And you…pause at that. Because just when you think he  doesn’t know you at  _ all,  _ he comes back at you with thoughts you  didn’t realize you even  _ had.  _ He reads you like  some kind of language ;  hieroglyphics on  a cave wall buried underground for thousands of years. He finds them one day, just like he found you, and is fluent in them in seconds. 

“I fucked a chub to.”

He chokes on that declaration, eyes a bit wider than  you’re used to, and then  laughs in that ‘ _ I can’t fucking believe this is the conversation we’re having’  _ way that only he can deliver. 

“Okay.” He settles back against the  headboard and shuffles through his mind. He starts counting on his fingers. “There was one  dude in juvie, both stints, so that’s two dudes.  2 in the joint before Mexico, 4 in Mexico, one chick, and…” he’s thinking.  “Oh and Angie  Zago .” He wiggles his fingers on both hands at you. Like a  _ God Damn child. _

You’re not amused. He sees that but  he’s smirking because he wants to fight. Because you want to fight. Why you  aren’t sure yet.

You  won’t bring up Svet . You  aren ’t that cruel. Its why he  didn’t name her to you either. There really are some things better left unsaid. 

“That’s not...” You huff, like a  _ child  _ and give him an unamused look. He raises that eyebrow at you. 

“Then what? Huh? What the fuck is this about, huh? I’m dying to know why, at,” he peers at the clock on the table next to him, “8:47 on a Tuesday night, you decided to just randomly bring up people you’ve banged.” He motions toward you like  he’s giving you permission to talk. Okay, now  you’re really unamused .

“That’s not...I...”  You’re frustrated now because again, as always, he  doesn’t get it. You  don’t get it. Why can’t he just do that thing again when he understands you without you having to explain it?  He’s gotten so good at it, and  you’ve become accustomed to it, and tonight of all nights he can’t just  _ do  _ it?

“Then  _ what? What,  _ man?”

You open your mouth. Shut it. Squeeze your eyes shut. Grip at long strands of hair that keep falling in your face, and he just keeps  _ watching  _ you, waiting.  He’s always just...waiting for you. And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? 

“I just thought I should tell you things...things I’ve never told you. Things, no one really knows. Reasons of why things happened.” You see his eyes cloud over with all those emotions again; and  he’s thinking, he thinks a lot these days; thinking of how to take what you just laid out in front of him. If  he’s going to come back with yet another snarky comment or answer. If  he’s going to ignore everything  you’ve said, which  seems to be his go to defense, or if  he’s actually going to try... _ try  _ to understand what  you’re trying to  accomplish here. You hope he goes for the latter, because you still  aren’t entirely sure you understand this  _ need  _ to unload ancient history tonight. 

Maybe things are too good. And you know you get like this when things are so...slow. Calm. Boring.  Stifling . Suffocating. Boring.  Yeah ,  you’re a  _ fucking  _ asshole and you could blame it on your disease. You know it  kinda is, no matter how stable you are, how un-manic you seem to be  you’re always buzzing. Sometimes you crave some insanity. And  maybe  it's not the bipolar at all,  maybe  it's just growing up southside.  Maybe  it's why Mickey will just randomly give some cashier or bank teller  a hard time , just to feel the vibration of a good argument or the ability to  rile someone up so quickly, so easily. Mickey always seems lighter after; that swagger in his step he once had when he was nothing but a southside piece of trash secretly fucking the redhaired freckled kid at the Kash and Grab. 

You feel that. You feel that need to push,  it’s always there. And since you  can’t push him to love you anymore than he already does;  can’t push him to be more affectionate because the fucker even holds your hand and kisses you in public now; you gotta push in other ways. Even if it means running head first into a fire you  probably shouldn’t have started in the first place. 

“Ian...” he sits up and away from the  headboard and gets right in your face with those eyes and that mouth that you know you  don’t deserve to have for the rest of your life. He still looks... _ annoyed  _ but  there’s something else below the surface.  It’s not understanding,  you’ve seen that emotion one too many times in the past year for your liking because you  don’t want him to understand. You  don’t want him to just  _ accept  _ everything  that’s happened. And you realize, in that moment,  that’s why  you’re doing this.  He’s accepted too much.  He’s taken everything and thrown nothing back.  He’s not given you one thing since he married  Svet , for you to forgive him for. 

And you have piles; piles of regrets and pain and mistakes and  _ should haves  _ and what does he have ?  A prison  record ? You have that too. Why does he get the end up the good guy in all this?  _ How _ __ did he end up the good guy in all this? And why is it bothering you, now, after everything. You both got what you wanted. Each other. No more bullshit. So, you throw a bunch of sexual mistakes at him in the hopes of what? Making you see  it’s just one more thing he can forgive you for? Were you hoping he gave you  _ something  _ in return; some crazy fucked up story of a coke induced orgy in Mexico where he woke up not knowing who he had been with the night before? Because then maybe, just  _ maybe  _ you’d be even on something. Anything. 

“You forgave me to easily!” You yell and it surprises you more than him. 

He crinkles his brow and rubs his finger across his eyebrow and  it’s his tell.  He’s getting more annoyed by the second but trying to keep his cool. Good, get mad. Yell.  _ Please.  _

_ “ _ That why you’re  bringin ’ this up? Hm?” 

You shrug. You are such a God Damn  _ child.  _

He nods. “Okay, fine. You  wanna do this, we’ll do this.” He gets up off the bed and cracks his  knuckles , then his neck. Is he  gonna hit you? Are you guys really  gonna fight? You guess  you’re okay with that,  it's been a while since you two have...

“You,” He takes a deep breath and you watch him from the bed and you...are... mesmerized . 

“You took something from me when you got sick. When you...cheated on me. When you took off, not once but twice. You took a piece of me. Before all that, when we were...good, it was the first time in my entire life I  didn’t feel broken.  Yeah , shit  was fucked still, but we were together. And you were in my bed every night. You were a part of me. And I thought I was a part of you. But you destroyed it. And I get you were sick. I get some of that shit you  couldn’t help, but it still took something from me. And I still tried to be with you. I still tried to make you see how much I loved you. How much loving you changed  me. ” He paces a few steps and you want him to stop. You  can’t do this. This  isn’t what you wanted. You take it all back. “But you didn’t. You  didn’t see it. You  didn’t see it behind that glass when I went to prison. You  didn’t see it under the fucking bleachers or at the docks when I busted out. You  didn’t see it at the border. And you  didn’t see it when that cell door closed neither. And  I’m sitting here with this fucking ring on my finger like a schmuck, still, and you  wanna tell me about some chick you banged and this other  dude , why? Because you think you  don’t deserve me? I already know that, Ian. But even now you still  don’t see how you changed me. And the saddest thing about all this is I didn’t change you at all.”

You swallow, visibly at him. You asked for this. You wanted him to just...talk. For once. About everything. You asked for this. And  you’ve never wanted to take something back so  _ badly  _ in your entire life. 

“You’re  exactly the same person I fell for. And  that’s ok. Its ok. I want it. I want it all. So, you wanting to hash old shit out,  won’t change a fucking thing but make you feel better.  Nothin you say will make a damn bit of fucking difference to me. Because I know who you are. I know what you did. I know a lot more than you think I do. But what you  don’t get, what you  can’t seem to wrap that carrot top dome around is that I  don’t give a shit. Because you changed me. And how can I be with anyone else after something like that? How can I just move on...be with someone else? Be someone else without you? I  can’t . And I  won’t . So, I  don’t know if this whole thing was to get me pissed off but I guess in some ways,  I’m always pissed off at you. But it  doesn’t change  nothin .  I’m still here. I  ain’t goin nowhere. So, you can stop with the walk down memory lane. Cause I just  don’t give a fuck. I love you. And I guess it’s just that simple.”

You  can’t move. You  can’t breathe. You  can’t cry. You  can’t speak. All you can do it stare at him and take in everything he just said. You  don’t think  he’s ever said so many words at once to you. Not even in the dark spaces of the cell you spent  almost a year of your life in with him. You wanted to know. You wanted him to tell you all the things you realize now you never wanted to hear. Why you thought you did,  you’ll never know. Because right now, with all his words settling in and making a home in your already fucked up brain,  it’s like looking in a mirror. You see yourself; and  it’s like seeing yourself for the very first time. You see yourself through his eyes. And your broken. And selfish. And fucked up  possibly without repair. 

But  you’re loved. And. ..  yeah ,  it’s enough. 

“Okay.” You whisper.  It’s all you got right now. 

He stands there a little while longer, his  long-winded confession settling into his skin and evening out his breathing. He climbs back into bed, the bed the two of you have made together, and he picks back up the magazine he had  thoroughly been enjoying before you assaulted him with your need to feel better about yourself. Again, he just takes whatever you throw at him, lets you push and he stays so grounded and you envy him in so many ways. He pushes his bare foot against your leg and your eyes meet and he motions with just a small head nod to come lie down with him.  He’s had enough tonight. 

You’ve had enough for a lifetime. 

You curl next to him, your head against his arm as he reads some article on some new machine that can  possibly do heart transplants and you wonder just how big his brain is to hold so much inside it. So many memories, so many answers to problems that  haven’t even risen yet. So much must go on in his brain every day and you realize  maybe the two of you  aren’t so  different after all . You both are in constant war with yourself daily. Over things you feel, things you said or  didn’t say. Things you need to do. Things you  don’t want to do.  He’s still the enigma you needed to control from the beginning. But  maybe instead of controlling him this time, instead of pushing so damn much,  maybe  you’ll just let it ride. Because if he  doesn’t give a shit, why should you? He loves you. You love him. And who ever said that always  isn’t enough never had someone like Mickey Milkovich love you. 

“I love you.” You tell him because  it’s the only real thing you know. 

“Love you too.” He says it so simply, so quickly. Without doubt. Without a pause. He looks down at you. “You’re slipping.”

You nod. 

“Okay. I’ll call the clinic tomorrow.”

And  it’s that simple. He knew. And you  didn’t . 

He always knows. He knew before you did. 

He did what you wanted. You wanted him to see you. You wanted... _needed_ him to reach deep inside you and pull out the thing you  didn’t want to admit. The thing you covered up by trying to start an argument that  didn’t need to  be had . The thing that is always just barely at the surface itching to get out. The thing you cover with 4 medications and daily runs and a routine. The thing that you made him promise he would never let get out of control again. 

But even though he knew what this was, that the painful and debilitating depression was on the horizon, he still gave you what you wanted. He gave, just a little, into your little game. Because you also made him promise not to pussy foot around you when this was happening. You needed him to be strong; you needed him to be the bitch slapping, shit talking piece of southside trash you need. But you also needed him to be your husband. He gave you both tonight. 

You fall asleep on his arm and when you  won’t get out of bed the next day, screaming at him to leave you alone, he  doesn’t . He tells you he  doesn’t give a shit what you want. Because he loves you. And he made a vow.  Sickness and health and all that shit. 

And  that’s what this is. Shit. 

But  he’s still here. 

Even when  you’re not. 


End file.
